


4 AM in London

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: bits and bobs [3]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Cigarettes, Feels, M/M, Nostalgia, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23377777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: He’s been on edge all day.9 PM. He's tipsy and lonely, and Richard texts him:miss you.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: bits and bobs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668343
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	4 AM in London

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, hola, ciao.
> 
> Looking for some gratuitous porn, and some even more gratuitous feels? You're in the right place, my friend.
> 
> A hard one to get through, this one was. Mainly inspired by [regulsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh)'s absolutely life-changing three-part fic, [Sideways I Slide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728442/chapters/54312508), which I recently re-read and which held my hand me throughout this brief journey. However, I want to make it very clear that never in a million years would I hope to rival their frankly absurdly hot smut and masterful writing in general. This is just a mere tribute. I am definitely not worthy.
> 
> P.S.: I know it's not been super clear so far, so I'm making it clear now: the fics in this series are not related to one another.  
> Also, this one takes place in October 2019, when Taron and Dex were on the crazy promo tour for _Rocketman_. End of PSA.

_Flock of birds fly over the time zones_   
_Nobody can tell us what we don't know_   
_Distance is easy, you make me completely alive_

8:30 PM. His room at Chateau Marmont. Three vodka-tonics, and an ache in his gut.

Useless.

He’s been on edge all day.

Press. Two screenings. Q&As with adoring fans. Dexter looking at him inquiringly when they headed out for a Starbucks and his face—his _mask_ —dropped.

He must have let that side of him peek through. The one that threatens to explode any minute of any day, lately. Neurotic Taron, normally locked in the basement of his brain, out for his hour of yard time. He _hates_ letting him out.

Dex’s hand on his shoulder, benevolent look through his thick specs. Loving, avuncular smile. Soothing London drawl, all open vowels and glottal stops. _I know, mate. Almost done, promise_.

Taron knows. He has to, _has to_ promote the absolute fuck out of his life’s work. Make everybody proud. Throw his name in the Goblet of Fire. Ah, if only the stakes were lower, if the circuit was less manic, if categories were less stacked this year. He’s perfectly and oh-so-painfully aware, deep down, that they’re never going to make it. But it’s fun to dream, after all, eh? Exhausting as ever-living _fuck_ —but fun.

Except, at the end of the day he’s drained. Lonely. Homesick.

Tired of LA.

Tired of October that doesn’t feel like October—too hot, too fake, too stuffy, too plasticky. Parades of journalists in tight suits and never-ending _apéros_. Decent red, sometimes, but too many cocktails, all of the other times. And canapés, too, can’t forget those. So much cheese. So much puff pastry. He’s on a diet. He shouldn’t.

Tired of spending time answering the same questions and trying not to glide over important but tedious details that he seems to be repeating ad libitum and that he’s absolutely terrified might be losing meaning, when the meaning is just so _fucking_ important.

Not tired of Dexter, but tired of literally everyone else. Tired of Lindsay. Tired of having way too many people around him at any given time, people he doesn’t care about—that he doesn’t _want_ to care about. But he should. He should. He knows he should.

Tired.

Mediterranean tonic. Tangy goodness caressing his palate and trickling down his throat. The strong spirit it’s mixed with, going straight to his head. Like a nicotine high. He thinks about that for five whole seconds and concludes he really should have bought a pack of fags. Hungry all the time, he is. At least smoking takes his mind off things.

Ah, fuck it.

Picks up his phone. Postmates three packs of Marlboro Red. Feels like a cowboy.

9 PM. Out on the balcony. If he concentrates, he can almost smell the sea. Flicks his lighter, checks notifications.

Text from his mam, _Thinking of you, darling. Hope everything’s alright. Dad and the girls say hi xx_

Text from Dex, _Absolutely battered today. Night, bud. I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel x_

Text from Elton, _Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of days. The Greek is always an absolute blast. You’ll be great. Love you, superstar xxx_

Text from Richard. _Texts_ from Richard.

Two words, _miss you_ , and a blurred selfie. Light on the left side of his face—his jawline, sharp as a fresh sheet of paper. Three-day old stubble that he can almost feel underneath his fingers, rough and unapologetic. Pale skin tinted gold from the orangey light of the lamp on his nightstand. His head nestled in those stupidly soft pillows that Taron always has to fold in two to actually have some neck support. Forest green sheets framing him. Freckles on his skin, chest hair darker than it was the last time Taron saw him, kissed him there—and everywhere else, too. Tired smile. Something unsettling in his eyes. Like a mixture of wickedness and dread.

Half an hour. Half an hour, he’s put his phone down. Half an hour, he’s left Richard hanging. Everybody else, too, to be fair—but everybody else does not get him this way. The way he’s feeling now.

Fire in Taron's belly, crackling feebly but surely as he hopelessly stares at the picture on his screen, bed head—rustled, messy hair, the curve of his shoulders, his collarbones. His mouth. The inside of his lower lip almost imperceptibly caught between his teeth.

Head spinning, and not because of the alcohol. Not even because of the discarded fag nestled in the one of the rigs of the ashtray, wasting away slowly. Cinders miraculously hanging on, by an invisible thread.

Phone screen goes dark. He unlocks it again. Sees _him_ again. A gallon of petrol poured on that unanticipated fire inside him. He keeps fuelling it, too. Mulls over exhaustion, frustration, _hiraeth_ —and something else, too.

Richard. _Richard_.

His eyes flick for a split second, read the time. A quick calculation says it’s now 4 AM in London, and that Richard originally texted him at 3:30.

4 AM. A truly unacceptable time to call—if you’re a functioning human being.

He wonders what that must feel like.

Ah, fuck it.

He taps on the receiver icon on the top right corner of the screen and calls him.

Richard picks up on the second ring. “Hi,” he says. Mellow. Just panting slightly.

_Panting?_

“Fucker,” Taron replies, leaning over the balcony railing, elbows on cold hard stone, tight back muscles relaxing. His body working for and against him. His brain buzzing with questions. Flames lapping at his insides.

“Just missed you,” Richard explains, not really apologising. “Dreamt of you. Woke up hard.”

Fuck. He needs another drink. Or another cigarette. Or Richard. Possibly the last one. “Did you?”

“Mmh, yes,” Richard hums, before letting out an actual, honest-to-God _grunt_.

 _Is he…?_ “Fuck, Dickie. Are you…?”

“Fucking _wish_ I was,” he snorts. Low, raspy morning voice. Something metallic clinking next to him. A loud huff. “Fucking love to. Fucking hate _this_.”

Telegramming from the land of expletives, it seems.

Something that feels like relief but has a distinctive aftertaste of disappointment floods Taron’s insides completely. Right. Richard’s 4 AM gym sessions, of course. How could he forget.

“You know you can exercise at normal times, too, right?”

Silence, then rustling. Taron can almost see him—AirPods, black tank top, black shorts, Nike kicks and gym gloves. Smith machine encaging him. Microfibre towel wiping sweat off his brow. Blue eyes staring at the mirror in front of him. A hypercritical, thoroughly sceptical look on his face.

Taron _knows_.

For the first time today, he doesn’t feel useless or lost. For the first time today, he knows exactly what he needs to do—and he _wants_ to do it, too.

“Richard.”

“Hm?”

“You know what you look like, right? You know what they would be looking at, if they were there?” _A fucking Hellenic statue, that’s what_.

“Been trying to figure that one out for the past fifteen years. Not sure I managed.”

And, well, fuck. Has Richard _ever_ been so blunt before?

He doesn’t see what everybody else sees. Taron knows. He’s seen the pictures. That auburn-haired, round-faced child. That wide-eyed, slightly chubby teenager. He knows what Richard sees.

“Richard?”

“Taron?”

“Take your shirt off,” he instructs, soft but firm.

“I—” _I don’t want to look at myself._ Even through the deafening silence thundering over line, it’s much louder and clearer than Richard thinks it is.

“For me, Richard. I promise, I’ll make it good.”

“But— _people_?”

“At bloody four in the bloody AM, love? Don’t think so. Very few people have that kind of willpower, honey,” Taron replies, quirking an eyebrow that Richard cannot see, but will most likely know is there.

Richard lets out a defeated chuckle and a muffled _yeah, alreyt_. Then, Taron hears more rustling. Then, a heavy exhale.

_Yes, Richard. Just look. Look at yourself._

Then, a plea. Almost strangled. “Taron…”

“D’you see it, Richard? How hard you’ve been working? How absolutely _stunning_ you are?”

A feeble, unconvinced sound. Taron bets that he’s doing that thing with his nose and mouth that he systematically does when anyone pays him a compliment.

_Here for you. Always here for you._

“I know you, love. And I need you to _remember_ ,” Taron almost sighs, softly, as he looks at the city in the distance and imagines himself in that stuffy gym instead, up close and personal with the man that makes his head spin and his heart pump and his knees buckle.

He would. Kneel. On the rough floor. Worship him. “Always,” he continues. “Even when I’m not there. Even when you wake up alone at ungodly hours and you don’t get to roll over and have me beg for you. Even when I can’t kiss every inch of your skin or marvel at the hardness of your abs. I need you to remember how flawless you are.”

More stillness. More heavy breathing. Then, Richard purrs. And Taron knows he’s going to make it.

“So gorgeous, love. You’re _so_ gorgeous. Look at yourself, Richard. _Look_.”

“God, Taron. I miss you so _fucking_ much,” Richard says, yearning in his voice like warm sunshine sobering him right up. “Wish this thing was over already. Wish you were here. Wish I could kiss you. Wish you—”

“Your gloves. Off.”

The distant, rough sound of Velcro being undone.

“Did you do it, Richard?”

“Do what?”

“In bed, earlier. You said you woke up hard. Did you _do_ it?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Richard just whimpered. “No, I didn’t.”

Taron inhales sharply as he pinpoints the precise moment when the fire inside him finally starts roaring. Destructive, all-powerful. He’s soaring. Like a dragon.

“Want to do it now, Richard? Touch yourself—for me? _With_ me?”

“Fuck, T.” A gruff exhale. “ _Yes_.” Hushed, like a secret.

A sudden shiver down Taron’s spine that shakes him to his core. It’s definitely not the chilly gust that just hit him, either. It’s all Richard—anxious, needy, malleable Richard—crumbling under his spell.

“Very good, love. You’re so beautiful. So hard for me, aren’t you?”

The sudden need to have his hands free. He takes advantage of Richard’s next supercharged silence to do exactly that. Fishes his earphones out of his jean pocket, pops the right one in. When Richard speaks again, it’s like his voice is coming right from the inside of Taron’s head.

“Yes,” Richard replies, feebly, melting. “Went to bed hard, woke up hard. Miss you, T. So fucking much. Losing my fucking mind.”

Fire crackling cruelly inside Taron now, eating away at his insides. Fuck. He can almost _feel_ Richard next to him. He’s gripping the railing, now, but it’s not harsh stone he feels under his fingertips. It’s just endless, hard muscle. Heated, inflamed quads and hamstrings. Bulging glutes—solid, perfect spheres that he wants to kiss for hours on end, spread open and lather with attentions. Abs, pecs, arms, shoulders. Veins popping as he flexes.

Hard. Richard said he’s been hard—still is hard. For _him_.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Which gym are you at?” is somehow what his brain produces, on autopilot, logistics being very efficiently taken care of while he’s busy playing a very dangerous game of Jenga in his mind—picking away at his wits one by one, seeing his carefully crafted tower pathetically tumble down before his very eyes.

“Marvel’s.”

“The cosy, private one? With the fucking retina scanner?” The nerdy fifteen-year-old inside him almost, _almost_ smiles like a loon just thinking about it.

“Hmm-hmm,” Richard hums, breathing hard down the line.

Oh, _perfect_.

“Do it right there, then. In front of the mirror.”

He takes the strangled, distant noise coming from Richard’s end of the line as a sign of assent.

“Are you sweaty, love?”

Thumb roughly pushing the cigarette pack open. Scrambling in his pockets for his lighter. He accidentally brushes against the tip of his own cock while he does so and audibly whimpers when he discovers that it’s standing rudely awake, reporting for duty, sir, fuck, _fuck_ , he shouldn’t, this is not about him—

“Yeah, wee bit—just ran. Not the morning cardio I’d have liked, but I’m making do,” Richard replies, breathing heavily now, wicked, pornographic. “God, I _need_ you.”

“’m right there, Richard. On my knees in front of you, licking your abs. Biting you,” he says, gruffly, as he bites down on the soft flesh of his lower lip and pretends it’s Richard’s obliques, head spinning with desire but also surprisingly clear. “Mine, Richard—look at yourself: you’re gorgeous and you’re _mine_.”

A long, dragged out groan. “Y—your tongue feels so much better than my fingers… Fuck, keep talking, tell me what to do. Please.”

“Touch yourself. One hand, over your shorts.” Taron’s seeing that happening almost too clearly. Loose gym shorts, unambiguous bulge. Long, pale fingers skimming over it. Richard’s breath catching. He just heard that last one happening, actually. “ _Slowly_ ,” Taron adds, almost as an afterthought. “Just the palm of your hand. Tell me how hard you are.”

“ _So_ hard. It’s almost… mmmh, God that feels good,” Richard interrupts himself, and Taron’s mind’s eye feeds him the image of Richard’s right thumb dragging over the tip of his cock, the fingers in his left hand scraping at his lower abs, contracting, putting on a show. He knows Richard loves it, loves looking at himself sometimes—even if he’ll never ever admit it out loud. “Almost ridiculous these days. ‘m _constantly_ hard.”

“Tell me what you want, love.”

“Want… need your mouth on me. Need you all over me.”

Must be the crazy dieting and training, Taron fleetingly ponders. Frustration and anxiety. Yearning for relief, release. But, most of all, yearning for security. Something, _someone_ to ground him, tell him he’s doing well, remind him how absolutely fucking breathtaking he looks, get him off with words alone—

“Peeling your shorts off, kissing you as I move down, down, down,” Taron chants, feeling himself smile wickedly as his nostrils almost, _almost_ fill with Richard’s smell, as he almost, _almost_ tastes the saltiness of his sweaty skin, and as he finally, _finally_ wraps his lips around the butt of his fag—soft, thin cylinder that he oh so wishes was Richard’s stiff, thick cock. Lights his cigarette, takes a drag. Makes it last. “Looking up, ‘cause I simply can’t take my eyes off of you—your fucking _body_ , Richard,” he offers, purring, his eyes closing. God, he wants to see him. “Kissing along the whole length of your cock, trailing those veins with the tip of my tongue… Y’know, those that make me squirm when you’re inside me.”

“Fuck, Taron, _yes_ …” Richard moans, far away and lost. “God, I need—”

“Yes, love, touch yourself properly. Run a hand over your abs, get it nice and wet for me. Then grab yourself. Imagine it’s my mouth, closing around you. Fuck, the way you taste, love… when I get back I want to spend _days_ going down on you.”

A gut-wrenching groan, halfway between pleasure and pain. “Will be… mmmh…. will be in Spain when you get back.”

 _Turn off your brain, you silly bastard._ “Then I’ll _fly_ to Spain, won’t I? Wait for you in your trailer and suck you off when you’re done with your day, every day,” he says, lewd and unapologetic, taking another drag off his cigarette to pace himself. “Bite you all over. _Definitely_ get you in trouble with hair and make-up.”

Richard chuckles throatily and roars into Taron’s ears. The sound reverberates through the centres of pleasure in his brain, smooth and rich—the most expensive single-malt he’s had in his life. Tiny electric shocks stirring him, every organ alive and alight. Like that first time he managed to breathe properly during yoga.

 _Enlightenment_.

“I would… fuck, I’d like that very much indeed,” Richard replies, his breath quickening and his voice deepening, shaking Taron to his core. “Pin you down, ruin you.”

“No chance I’ll be able to get away, either. You’re too strong, now.”

“T-take ye from behind… my arm ‘round your neck, flexing to choke you…”

The most unholy picture paints itself in Taron’s mind. Richard buried deep inside him. That ridiculously chunky bicep digging in his throat. The sound of Richard’s thrusts—hips smacking against his abused backside, hard, fast. The drag of his cock, tip brushing against his prostate, those gorgeous veins tickling his walls over and over and over and _over_. Perhaps a hand closed around his mouth, to stop him from crying out.

 _Fuck_ , he needs—

He needs to stop thinking about how painful his own erection has become, lean against a wall, close his eyes, and keep talking.

Deep breath. In, out. The longest drag off his cigarette.

Opens his mouth to say something else, but Richard cuts him off. “You’re right—you won’t be able to get away.”

“I’d try though. Writhe and whine, because I know you like it. I know how you get.” _I know how much you like the power._ “I know _you_ , Richard.”

“God, I… J—just… _you_ , love. I need you. Come _back_ to me,” Richard lets out, almost a howl, torn from the depths of him. “C-close, ‘m so close…”

“Want to see you,” Taron pleads, more desperate than he would have liked—selfish, _selfish_ , but he can’t help it, he needs it too, so bad, because he’s just crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and brought his hand down, down to the dreadful bulge in his jeans, dragged the side of his thumb over the length of his cock, and thinking straight, talking— _breathing_ is so hard, at the moment. “Want to see you come for me.”

Richard doesn’t reply, but Taron still picks his phone up from where it’s resting on the parapet. It lights up to greet him, and then informs him that Richard is requesting to switch to FaceTime, and would he like to accept.

Would he fuck.

Eager thumb saying yes, yes, a million times yes, and Richard’s face on the screen. Chiselled jawline and sweaty brow, curls sticking to his forehead. The glistening silver of the barbell he’s resting against peeking out from above his shoulders—his beautiful, beautiful shoulders, cut like precious stones, the harsh angle between his trapezius and his deltoids. Hell, what Taron would give to teleport into that gym and just fucking bite him all over. Dig his teeth into that hard flesh and mark Richard as his own.

Darkened eyes, pools of blue and black barely open, long lashes blinking through tiny droplets of sweat, glitter, diamonds over Richard’s freckles and perfectly trimmed beard.

Fuck, he’s _unreal_.

Taron turns his back to the city, allows the light from the inside of his room to shine on his face. He has no idea of how he looks right now, but he suspects Richard won’t much care whether he’s battered or groomed, just as long as he gets to look at him.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Taron says, as smooth as he can muster as he’s busy running his free hand over his dick, thrusting a little into his palm, thick denim massaging the side, not enough, _not enough_.

“H-hi,” Richard replies, breathless. That familiar half smile, only the right side of his face curling up. Smug—he knows, he _must_ know how fucking _stunning_ he is. “Taron…”

“Gonna come for me, then, sweetheart? Gonna show me?”

Richard’s teeth, perfect pearls tugging at his ruby lip. Then he nods, desperate. The camera flips and Taron _has_ to grip himself harder through his jeans, as what he sees simply threatens to send him over the edge, completely untouched.

Richard is standing much closer to the mirror than Taron had anticipated, and his whole body is in the shot. Filming his reflection in the glass. Shirtless, sweaty torso, discreet but definitely noticeable six-pack— _he’s flexing_ , God, fuck—the V of his obliques, the trail of hair from his navel to his crotch, his shorts ridden down his thighs.

That hand, choking his cock. White knuckles. Wet fingers. Taron just wants to drop to his knees and lick them clean.

“My God, Richard, what the _fuck_ ,” Taron says, breathless, struggling to keep his cool, fighting to get himself through this—to get _Richard_ through this without falling apart himself. “So fucking beautiful, love, look at that… So wet for me. Can almost taste you on my tongue. Feel your fingers in my hair as you fuck my face.”

He gets back into his mind and recalls, replays old tape recordings of _that_ , his favourite thing in the world. He can never fucking get enough of it. Practically feels it happening—full, so full, right to the back of his throat, gagging, gasping for air. His hair pulled, hurting so good. Spit dribbling down his chin.

The Met Gala, back in May, and that private toilet they found. Almost ruined his tux.

He snaps out of it only when Richard grunts, low and absolutely filthy, drained and feral. He doesn’t see Richard’s face, but he does see the rest of him, gorgeous and sinful, straining towards his release. Every muscle contracting, those veins on his forearm protruding, rude, indecent—but not quite as indecent as what’s coming out of Richard’s mouth. A string of veritable profanities and Taron’s name tied together with the flaming red thread of his upcoming climax.

His hand, moving more and more frantically up and down his swollen length. The echo of _that_ noise, mixed with loud, strangled moans. A litany of wordless pleas.

“I’m yours, Richard, _yours_. To do as you please. And you are mine. C’mon, love. Come for me, gorgeous. Want it all over me.”

And Richard does—he _does_ come. As if a switch was just flipped, as if he was just waiting for Taron’s permission. Taron’s name on his lips, nothing but a low growl, and endless, violent splashes of white shooting all over him, painting his abs and chest. Taron can see those very well even if the angle is not quite right, and he marvels at how in the _world_ Richard is managing to keep his arm steady enough for the camera not to wobble uncontrollably while the rest of his body is shaking.

He feels his own breathing quicken in rhythm with Richard’s, as Richard somehow switches the camera and Taron sees his face, first, then his come-streaked torso and abdomen—a true thing of beauty, a mental image he’s definitely keeping in his archives for those sad and lonely nights he spends in hotel rooms, that are more and more frequent lately. However, Richard seems to have no mercy on his horny, melancholy thoughts, because he flips the camera again and this time something else is at the centre of the shot—his beautiful, thick, weeping cock, the last drops of white trickling off the tip and down the shaft, promptly picked up by Richard’s fingers as he continues to massage it slowly, and—

“Fuck, Dickie, _seriously_.”

“This is your fault, I’ll remind you,” Richard says, matter-of-factly. Hoarse voice, audible smile. He gives himself a few more painfully slow strokes. “This is how you get me.” He flips the camera, back to his face. “ _You_ , Duckie. Only you,” he adds, sickeningly honeyed, a huge grin on his spent, beautiful face. “Thank you for this. Feels wrong when I do it on my own. Feels like I’m missing something.”

Taron is flustered and there’s a fire roaring in his belly, but the words hit him square in the heart. And the ache in his gut is back—though it’s a different kind, this time. It’s an ache for Richard, and literally no-one, _nothing_ else.

He smiles through it all—horniness and longing, heartache and lust. “You’re very welcome. D’you believe me, then? When I tell you you’re drop-dead gorgeous and that your body is absolutely insane?” _And that you don’t need to work out at the arse-crack of dawn because you don’t want people to see you?_ He thinks it first, then he actually says it. Word for word.

“Mmh, maybe.”

“Not just _maybe_ , Dickie. And I know the rest of the world definitely agrees.”

“I do kind of enjoy it, sometimes, if I’m honest,” Richard says, apologetic, his eyes smiling. Those gorgeous, gorgeous wrinkles. “Y’know. Waking up, getting to talk to you first thing in the morning—no matter how early. You give meaning to my days, T. You keep me sane.”

A lump in Taron’s throat that tastes like nostalgia. Hard to swallow, but he manages. Tries not to let his voice tremble too much. “And I love talking to you in the evening. Honestly feel like a show dog, these days. You bring me back to life.”

Richard bites his lip and shakes his head. A coy smile, blood rushing to his cheeks. Beautiful. _Beautiful._ “We’re a couple of miserable, sappy sods, aren’t we?”

“Nothing new there, eh?” Taron replies, mirroring his smile. “We should make it a regular thing—calls like these. Cheer each other on, an’ all that?”

“Genius idea. Sign me up, immediately,” Richard replies, his grin widening. He looks down at his chest, then back at the camera. “Better go, now, love. You got my hot, _hot_ body all sticky and disgusting, didn’t ye?” A raised eyebrow, a sardonic smile. The index finger of his free hand picking up a single drop of come from right above his left nipple and bringing it to his mouth—lips only briefly closing around the tip of it, but sending sparks through Taron’s whole body all the same.

 _Honestly_.

“Fuck off. Really not my fault if you’re such a filthy bastard and you _actually_ go along with my bonkers ideas.”

“Touché,” Richard replies, smirking. “That’s what I love most about you, though. Well, that and your stupid gorgeous face,” he adds, a postscript that somehow makes Taron look down and blush to the roots of his hair. “Goodnight, Duckie.”

“Good morning, Dickie.”

_I love you too._

Next time. Next time he’ll say it.


End file.
